A-Z Johnlock
by LockWhoSuper
Summary: A series of drabbles show casing the lives of Sherlock and John through the letters of the alphabet. Implied Johnlock.
1. Apple

**A**pple-

Sticky with juice and rightly pissed off, John washed his hands angrily in the kitchen sink until they were raw. Drying them off on a hand towel just as angrily, John tried to kill Sherlock with a glare to the back of his curls.

Sherlock sat at the dinning room table, seemingly oblivious to John behind him at the sink attempting to kill him. Slicing into another apple, Sherlock cored the surprisingly juicy fruit almost expertly and slid the discarded seeds to a pile off to side with the dull side of the kitchen knife.

Dropping different sized chunks of the fresh apple into beakers that contained different chemicals and solutions, Sherlock examined the results and scrawled them down into a little note-book.

"John, I need more apples." Sherlock said flatly, annoyed that there weren't anymore in the bag in front of him.

John said nothing, he just crossed his arms across his chest and waited.

"John?" Sherlock tuned in his seat, his dress shirt sleeves were neatly rolled up to his elbows and juice dripped down his pale forearms. It only took a second for Sherlock to deduce what was wrong and he exhaled an annoyed little puff of air from his nose. "John, it's an experiment, I didn't know you were going to come up behind me and-"

Holding up a finger, John hushed the detective. "Why have you doused all our apples in different types of acids?"

"For science John!" Sherlock got excited very quickly about his latest experiment and started to spout out names of chemicals and reaction times, apparently the apples synthesized something that started with the letter 'P'. John wouldn't have been able to pronounce it even if his life depended on it.

"-and that is why I need more apples John." Sherlock stared at him expectantly, oceans for eyes surprisingly warm and full of excitement.

John stared right back at Sherlock, his set face melted and the anger he felt towards his crazy detective faltered. Wiggling his nose a little before dropping his folded arms to his sides, his jumper sleeves falling past the tips of his fingers, John approached Sherlock who was turned in his seat waiting expectantly as John walked over to him.

"Fine, I will get you your apples you great prat." John reached out and brushed a soft hand over the detectives cheek bone and tilted his pale face up wards. "Just clean the table okay? I want to actually be able to wrap my arms around you next time without getting covered in sticky juice." John made Sherlock nod his head with the hand still cupping the detectives cheek.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "this isn't the time to be messing around John! Hurry or I'll have to start my experiment all over again!"

It was John's turn to roll his eyes, with a swift peck of his lips to Sherlock's mop on the top of his head, John went and fetched him some more apples before he burnt the flat down.


	2. Body

**B**ody-

It was common knowledge that John was at least an entire head shorter than Sherlock. It was also obvious that John was fuller than Sherlock, a healthy amount of fat in all the right places of his body, defined and toned by his days in the army and playing rugby in his youth. John remained fit these days from chasing Sherlock around London.

Sherlock on the other hand was slim and angular, Irene had said herself that you could possibly cut your hand slapping those cheek bones of his. Tall and slim, cheek bones and flawless pale skin, Sherlock would make a perfect vampire. John had even said so once one evening after a rough bit of sex, Sherlock had bit and sucked at John's clavicle, leaving a deep purple bruise that would linger and mark John as Sherlock's for days.

They were different in every sense of the word. Straight sandy blonde hair contrasted against Sherlock's raven curls, angular and tall against curvy and short, cute jumpers and jeans opposed to dress shirts and black coats, John's heart versus Sherlock's brain. That was probably the biggest difference between the two of them, why they were so compatible, they balanced each other, grounded one another against the outside world.

John loves Sherlock's body and mind just the way it is, as Sherlock loves John's body and heart just the way it is. Both men would never change anything about the other, even when Sherlock dragged John to the morgue at 3am to investigate the latest dead body.


	3. Coat

**C**oat-

The light reflecting off the puddles on the pavement made John's head hurt so he looked away, but there wasn't much else to see as the only light that was offered to his surrounding area were flashing police lights and miniature stadium lights. Beyond the lights of the police and the forensic unit was darkness, John guessed that if he stepped away and looked up he would be able to see the stars.

As the wind picked up, John huddled in Sherlock's coat. He had gotten some strange looks from the officers on site and a punch in the arm by an unfazed Lestrade who was use to John and Sherlock being all 'domestic' and 'cute' wearing each others clothes.

Sherlock was currently inside the white forensic tent that shielded the body from further contamination and outside forces. Lestrade had forced him to wear a bio hazard suit because the body was covered in some sort of growth, the murder would be easy to solve even by the Yard's standards as soon as Sherlock had identified the strange growth. After all he was a scientist as well as a detective.

So the beloved coat had to stay behind, not that John minded one bit because it was somewhere around 3am and freezing. John squinted against the harsh light and watched Sherlock emerge from the forensic tent, the detective quickly shed his bio hazard suit and was almost finished giving Lestrade his findings by the time John had made his way over to the pair.

"-fertilizers!" Sherlock unceremoniously dropped the last piece of his bio suit on the ground. "You don't need these ridiculous suits!" Sherlock's voice was filled with irritation. John made another guess that Anderson was inside the forensic tent.

"Fungus fertilizers?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow at Sherlock before noticing John and giving him a quick nod in acknowledgment.

Coming to a stop beside Sherlock, John started removing the famous black, warm coat one arm at a time, the cold weather made his wounded shoulder act up a little bit so it was slow going. Sherlock noticed of course and without stopping his long string of deductions that Lestrade was frantically trying to write down, Sherlock helped John slip his coat off his shoulders.

John smiled up at Sherlock's bow lips twitched briefly before pulling on his coat. He popped the collar and withdrew his gloves from the pockets, "if that will be all Lestrade, I think I can let you take it from here."

"Yeah, but what about-"

Sherlock pulled on his gloves while John rocked on his heels, moving to keep warm. The wind picked up again and the forensic tent rocked, Sherlock's curls whipped around his face briefly before being blown back. "Get Anderson to do it, I'm sure he can remove an I.V drip, it's sugar water- not some poison." Sherlock added a little disappointed.

"Fine, yeah, whatever. Thanks for this, you'll both be in tomorrow for a proper statement. Good, okay, see you then." Lestrade looked back down at his note-book and started scribbling again.

"Night Greg," John said politely as he snaked a cold, un-gloved hand under Sherlock's coat and placed it on his slim hip. Sides flush together, John turned Sherlock around- away from the crime scene and towards a main road so they could hail a cab back to 221B. It was cold, early and John just wanted to get some sleep, his own jumper wasn't as warm as Sherlock's big coat and he was grateful that Sherlock didn't push him away even though they were still in the eyes of the Yard.


	4. Date

**D**ate-

Linked pinkies on the seat between them, John's gaze was faced out the window, watching the unfamiliar lights of London's streets wiz past their cab. Sherlock's gaze was on John, watching the expressions on his face change, Sherlock had noted straight away that John was undoubtedly confused as to where they were going.

Unknown to John, Sherlock had pick pocketed Mycroft and taken his credit card. Sherlock and John had at least three hours maximum to enjoy an extravagant dinner and dessert before Mycroft started the next world war when he realizes whats happened. Although Sherlock isn't worried, already he has worked out exactly what he is going to say to the elder Holmes brother and to John when they pull up outside the restaurant well out of their pay range.

Throwing a couple of crumpled bills over the seat, John quickly thanked the cab driver and exited the cab after Sherlock. Looking around, John admired the clean streets and the fancy looking store fronts. Taking John's hand in his, Sherlock tugged his boyfriend- partner, lover? Towards their final destination, Sherlock was making John walk so fast he missed the name of the restaurant.

"Wait, I thought-" John started to ask before Sherlock opened the door for him and pushed him gently inside.

"There is no time to waste John," Sherlock smiled down at the shorter man and squeezed his hand.

John was suspicious but the curve of the detectives bow lips were contagious, he couldn't help himself when he smiled back.

"Can I help you sir's?" Came a perky voice from behind John, Sherlock lifted his eyes and nodded at the waitress.

"Table for two, reservation Holmes." Sherlock replied, cold and quick to the point.

John turned his head so he could look at the waitress, she looked slightly shocked but she was quick to regain her composure.

"Mycroft, we've been expecting you. We have set up one of out private dinning suites which we hope will be comfortable for you-" The waitress paused and gave John a once over "-and your date." With that said she turned, and lead Sherlock and John to large room in the back of the restaurant. A small circular table was set up in the middle of the room, a bottle of what looked like champagne in a bucket of ice next to it.

Once the waitress left them, promising to return quickly with menus, John smacked Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Mycroft? Seriously? Sherlock, what is this?" He hissed, tone accusing.

Instead of answering with words, Sherlock reached into his trousers and pulled out a credit card, a credit card that John didn't recognize. Handing the card to John, John scanned it quickly before he laughed once, all anger forgotten.

"How in the world did you manage to get a hold of this?" John was bewildered, looking up at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"Please sit, John." Sherlock said calmly, a knowing smirk on his lips as he pulled John's chair out for him.

John raised an eyebrow but sat in the offered seat, the seat was cushioned and extremely comfortable and John leaned back, slouching slightly to achieve maximum level comfort from the chair. Sherlock took a few steps around to the other side of the table and gracefully sat his lanky body down into his own comfortable chair and smiled at John.

"I pick pocketed him." Sherlock chimed, pleased at his accomplishment.

"Sherloc-" John started to ask his idiot detective all sorts of questions but he was cut off by Sherlock.

"He was being irritating, pressuring me into taking one of his cases, so I pick pocketed him. Don't look at me like that John, you know how annoying my elder brother can be. Let us enjoy this while we can?"

John sat in silence for a moment, deciding not to say anything about the subject when the waitress returned briefly to give them their menus.

"You know," John started softly, "this wasn't exactly the kind of Friday night date I had in mind."

Sherlock grinned, "yes I know. Champagne?"

Huffing, John gave in and smiled, "I can't believe that I'm actually going to let you get away with this."


	5. Eyeball

**E**yeball-

"I don't think Molly will just give the eyeballs to you Sherlock, isn't there usually a form or something you have to fill out?!" John was panting, his voice ragged from jogging, trying to keep up with Sherlock who always seemed to be one step a head of him- no matter how fast he ran.

"Yes there are forms I should fill out, John, but that takes time! Time I could be using to experiment! The game John does not wait for forms!" Sherlock's head was turned, so his voice could trail back towards John. Yelling over his shoulder made some of Bart's hospital's staff glare at the loud man and his short friend, but both men just ignored it. Sherlock was too focused on getting to the morgue and John was too tired and in too much of a hurry to even mutter a half-felt apology.

"Eyeballs aren't a game Sherlock! You can't jus- oof!" Smacking into Sherlock, John bounced back a few steps. "You git! What are you doin-" John was cut off by the 'ting' of the elevator arriving, "oh."

"John," Sherlock stepped forwards into the surprisingly empty elevator and barely gave John a chance to step in after him before he pressed the button for the morgue and the elevator doors closed.

"Sherlock," John had his hand on his hips, he wasn't angry as such, just tired and this whole fiasco was staring to melt the thin ice they were standing on.

Clapping his hands together, Sherlock bounced once or twice on the spot, impatient for the elevator to reach the morgue. A quick glance at John made him pause his bouncing, "I know eyeballs aren't a game John, I've worked with them before-"

"That's what I'm worried about, Sherlock! Last time you experimented on eyes you knocked us both unconscious with those fumes you made! It was disgusting and we had to replace the kitchen table-"

"We have masks this time John, and anyway," Sherlock waved his hand in the air, dismissing what John was trying to cut in with, "it's a completely different experiment. Nothing but boiling should happen, it's completely safe!"

"Ugh," John groaned in disgust, "you're going to boil an eyeball? Nope, not happening, you can do that here, in the morgue." As John was talking, the elevator came to a stop and John pulled Sherlock into a chaste kiss before he pushed Sherlock out of the elevator. "Beg Molly to let you stay, I'm going home, back to bed. I'll see you later yeah? I'll bring lunch." John pressed the button for the previous floor and the elevator doors started closing, "have fun Sherlock."


	6. Fridge

**F**ridge-

Raising his head from the table, Sherlock's curls fall down his face and unable to focus on anything else but the delicate curl, John runs his free hand through his boyfriends hair, pushing the strands off Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock hummed in approval and blinked his eyes open,

"No not that one, John. The one below it, next to the clear one."

"Oh," John looked down at the bottle of white liquid in his hand, "what's this one then?"

"Hemlock," replied Sherlock, "it was very hard to get my hands on some, so be careful."

John just rolled his eyes, of course he was being careful , he didn't know what was deadly and what wasn't- hence the entire point of John and Sherlock's afternoon. Labeling everything in the fridge.

"What does this one do?" John asked, hooking a thumb nail under the plastic strip and peeling it away, exposing the sticky backing of the Hemlock label and smoothed it over the little bottle of white liquid and then slid it over to the growing group of bottles that ranged from deadly poisons to ketchup.

"Death from paralysis, your mind is wide awake, but your body doesn't respond and eventually the respiratory system shuts down." Sherlock shrugged and leaned past John so he could reach into the fridge and grab the bottle of clear liquid. "Botulinum Toxin," he stated and handed it to John.

John blinked, "this sounds familiar," taking the bottle of clear liquid from Sherlock, their hands brushed and John's heart skipped a beat in his chest.

Sherlock hummed and then muttered "Connie Prince," and then watched as John nodded his head in recognition. "B-O-T-U-L-I-N-U-M, John," Sherlock removed another bottle from the fridge and scrutinizes it while waiting until John fixed his spelling mistake and then slid the freshly labeled bottle over to the others.

All of a sudden John's laugh filled the kitchen and Sherlock's eyes roamed John's face, committing the sight to memory.

"That's ranch dressing Sherlock, stop looking at it like that."

With a serious face, Sherlock reached into the fridge once again and brought out another bottle of ranch dressing- completely identical to the one in his other hand. "Great observation John, I was just trying to recall which I mixed Belladonna into."


	7. Gregory

**G**regory-

At the sound of the bathroom door opening, John called out to his boyfriend from his spot in the living room, "Greg called when you were in the shower, Sherlock." John was siting in his chair, today's newspaper spread out on his lap in front of him. Having not bothered to look up from the newspaper when he reported a new potential case to Sherlock, it took John a while to realize that the mad man hadn't rushed out demanding details or yelled at John to get ready so they could get to the Yard as quickly as possible. In fact, Sherlock hadn't made a noise at all. For a moment John thought he had just imagined the pipes becoming silent when the water for the shower turned off and the sound of the bathroom door opening, but John raised his head from the newspaper and listened. Hearing nothing, John frowned and turned in his chair to look down the hallway.

Sherlock was standing tall, a puddle of water forming at his feet, a hand clenching the two ends of a white towel together at his hip. When John met Sherlock's gaze, Sherlock asked "who's Greg?"

Eyebrows shooting up to has hair line, John's lips parted in shock and he struggled to find the right words, "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

After a heartbeat of silence, a laugh bubbled to Sherlock's lips and escaped in a series of deep chuckles, "Lestrade's name is Greg?"

John hesitated before he simply replied with a shrug of his shoulders, "technically his name is Gregory." Folding the newspaper, John lifted himself off his chair and tossed the newspaper on the coffee table, mindful of the possibility of loose pages falling out and drifting onto the floor.

"Gregory? Oh this just keeps getting better and better," Sherlock was still chuckling, his laugh was deep and his shoulders shook. John ducked his head to watch his hands fix his jumper around his waist to hide a smile. Once satisfied that his jumper was sitting correctly and that the threat of a smile at Sherlock's laughter was under control, John took a few steps forward until he was in the detectives personal space.

"I can't believe you didn't know that, you've known him longer than I have-" As John was talking, he had lifted both of his hands to place against Sherlock's still shower warm chest "-but that's not important, Greg called to say that there might be a possible case for us to look at, might be a 7 or 8?" John could feel Sherlock's heart beat under the palms of his hands and John noticed the position he was in. Swallowing thickly, John parted his lips and wet them with his tongue while trailing his eyes approvingly down Sherlock's naked torso, John followed the path his eyes created with his hands and settled them on Sherlock's hips. Fingers gripping the towel, John stepped closer until his clothed chest was pressed against Sherlock's naked one.

Sherlock's voice was heavy with arousal when he spoke again, "you're right, John. Lestrade's name isn't important, already deleted."

This time, John didn't hide his smile, instead he embraced it by flashing Sherlock a cheeky grin, "there are much more important things we could be doing." Slipping his hands off Sherlock's hips, John loosened the detectives grip from the towel and let the material fall to their feet.


	8. Hudson

(Mrs) **H**udson-

When John and Sherlock were first _together together_, as in 'intimate relations.' Mrs Hudson had caught them in bed together the morning after- still till this day without knowledge to either John or Sherlock.

It was late in the morning, almost lunch time and Mrs Hudson hadn't heard a sound from upstairs. There was usually always a noise coming from 221B by this time of day if John and Sherlock were still home, which the pair were most likely still because that Detective Inspector with the silver hair hadn't called or made the trip over to Baker Street in almost a week and there was nothing in the papers that would be suffice for Sherlock to sink his teeth into. John was supposed to be working at the Clinic today, but he hadn't come down stairs yet either.

Expecting the worse, Mrs Hudson had climbed the stairs to 221B and used her master-key to let herself into the flat. Sniffing carefully, Mrs Hudson couldn't smell a gas leak or the smell of a failed experiment. Taking that as a good sign, she made her way into the kitchen- past John and Sherlock's tossed aside shoes and a pair of socks in the living room and a disturbed rug and had a look around, nor John or Sherlock were passed out on the floor, the kettle was cold and Sherlock's famous coat was carelessly draped over the back of a chair along with one of John's jumpers.

On the floor of the hallway leading to Sherlock's bedroom, John's plaid button up shirt and Sherlock's 'purple shirt of sex' were tangled together along with the other pair of socks and a belt. By now Mrs Hudson had realized what had happened to the Army Doctor and the Consulting Detective but she ventured further and gently pushed open the door to Sherlock's bedroom.

Gasping silently at the mess, Mrs Hudson surveyed the room and giggled inwardly at the rest of John and Sherlock's clothing that was strewn around the once tidy bedroom. Mrs Hudson thanked the heavens when her eyes finally fell on the bed and silently thanked the duvet that covered John and Sherlock, not that she could tell where John started and Sherlock ended. The men's legs were tangled together and Sherlock's curls were being jostled slightly as John breathed, Sherlock's head was rested on John's chest and John's arms were wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders protectively.

Since John and Sherlock were still in a deep sleep, Mrs Hudson smiled knowingly to herself and exited Sherlock's room closing the door softly behind her.


	9. Idiot

**I**diot-

"-is a freak! I can't believe you let him in here!"

"-professional-"

"-professional?! He prances-" there was a hallow pause before Anderson continued, "-gets off on it!"

"-think you can do better-" Lestrade argued back, "-need him."

The conversation was splotchy, but John was still able to pick up bits and pieces through the air vent he was kneeling down beside. _No he wasn't ease dropping. _Originally he was ordered here by Sherlock, "check all the vents John!" Before he had run off in his own direction in search for his own clues with a swish of his coat before John could protest or even ask what the bloody hell he was looking for. So no, it wasn't ease dropping, John just happened to be in the right place at the right time to hear Anderson rant about the love of his life while he was searching for _something._

Metal gate to his left, a pile of large screws- which had been a mission to un-screw but with a little elbow grease John had managed- to his right, there was John. On his knees in the middle of a hallway, fits clenching and un-clenching around a pathetic excuse for a screw driver, seriously fighting the urge to rip Anderson a new one.

"-fake! He doesn't have a heart, Boss-"

"-he's a little cold sometimes-" Lestrade's voice was sounding thin, John didn't even have to look at the Detective Inspector to know that his eye lids were clenched together and a hand was pinched against the bridge of his nose.

"-can't keep saying that he's-" There was another pause while John listened to a muffled uniformed officer inform Lestrade that Sherlock had found something.

"-conversation isn't over-"

Lestrade must of left the room then. John sat on his knees another heartbeat before deciding what he was going to do. With a surge of adrenaline pulsing through his veins, John shot to his feet and quickly shook off the pins and needles he had gathered in his feet. Determined, and not a force to be reckoned with, John started heading towards the general direction of where Anderson was. Large strides and his Captain Watson stature, John soon found himself standing outside the door of where Anderson was slowing doing something with the latest body, a murder victim that needed Sherlock's attention.

John cleared him throat roughly and had to suppress a smirk when Anderson jumped at the sound.

"Oh, John. It's just you. I thought you and Sherlock-" Anderson's lip turned up at the name, as if it gave him physical pain to say it, "-would've gone by now."

Shrugging, John plastered an easily faked smile on his face and lent casually against the door frame- careful to dart his eyes down before hand to make sure he wasn't contaminating any evidence.

"You know Sherlock, it will be another hour at least before he even thinks about leaving." John's voice was smooth and casual giving away nothing of the rage that was boiling underneath his skin.

Anderson grunted and turned his attention back to whatever he was doing before John had interrupted.

Continuing casually, John slipped further into the room slowly shutting the door behind him as he spoke, his voice still giving away nothing, "it's a good thing Sherlock's a professional, isn't it?"

The door shut with a click and Anderson snapped his head up, giving John the most confused look John had ever seen in his life.

"I doubt Lestrade would let anyone in here." John looked down at the body, laid out on the floor before him. At closer inspection, it looked as though Anderson was trying to fit something in the victims mouth.

"Have you ever paid attention to the way Sherlock walks?" John asked, he lifted his eyes from the body to Anderson's and smiled, "the way he prances around?"

Anderson's eyes widened, "how-"

"It's funny," John mused, "I always thought over hearing a conversation through the air vents was only something in spy movies." John shrugged again, "but I guess I was wrong because I heard you clear as day." Straightening his posture, John stood in his military stature and glowered at Anderson. For a moment it looked as though Anderson was going to break under John's heavy gaze, and John continued quickly before Anderson could say anything.

For the next few minuets John yelled at Anderson for being a down right idiot in every sense of the word. The vein in John's forehead was throbbing and his mouth was dry from all the talking he had just done, Lestrade had come rushing in and John had to be physically dragged out of the room. Anderson was as white as a sheet and didn't say anything while John left. John just hopped that he had done enough, and the look on Sherlock's face when the detective pulled him close to calm him down told him that he had.


	10. Jumpers

**J**umpers-

Sherlock huffed in annoyance as he paced the non-carpeted space of floor in front of the stairs. His sock clad feet made little noise against the wooden floor beneath him but soon another loud sigh could be heard, echoing throughout the empty flat of 221B. _This is ridiculous,_ Sherlock thought to himself and he halted his pacing.

Running a pale hand through his raven curls, Sherlock pivoted where he stood and forcibly made himself walk to the kitchen and throw himself into one of his experiments. Except that Sherlock couldn't concentrate, he ended up just staring blankly in the direction of the stairs from where he sat at the kitchen table.

John had gone to visit his sister. She was something or rather sober for such and such long- Sherlock hadn't paid much attention to what John had said because this was the third time in the last year and although Sherlock thought it every time, he never dared to tell John that she would just fall straight back into alcoholism the second John returned home. Sherlock never said anything but John always knew what he was thinking.

The third visit to his sister was different this time, though. John would be gone longer than Sherlock would believe necessary and even though Sherlock would never admit it to anyone and he was seriously struggling to admit it to himself, he was starting to miss his doctor.

Hence the pacing at the bottom of the stairs. Even though John and Sherlock shared a room, John still kept his favorite jumpers upstairs in his old bedroom. He was afraid Sherlock would mistake it for one of his other least favorites and pour chemicals all over it in the name of science, ruining it for all of eternity and John would never be able to wear the thing again.

There was a pregnant pause in Sherlock's train of thoughts before he abruptly shoved himself away from the kitchen table and stood again. Before his thoughts could catch up to him, he swiftly made his way back to the stairs and climbed them. Now at the top of the stairs, Sherlock took a breath and walked into John's old room.

The room way pretty much empty now, the bed was made in John's military style but there weren't any personal effects. John called it a guest room, and Sherlock just nodded his head and agreed with his doctor even though it was likely no one would ever use the room. Sherlock made his way over to John's old wardrobe and opened it slowly.

Inside the wardrobe where John's jumpers, neatly hung up on the coat rack. Sherlock reached forwards hesitantly and ran his fingers over the material of his black and white stripped one. Bow lips twitching briefly, Sherlock moved his fingers and trailed them over the one he wears at Christmas. _Utterly ridiculous,_ Sherlock thought again as he pulled John's oatmeal cable knit jumper off the coat rack and brought it up to his nose to breath in the lingering sent that was pure _John._

Carefully, Sherlock pulled John's jumper over his curls and twisted his body so he could get his arms into the sleeves comfortably. Fiddling with the hem of John's jumpers, Sherlock sat it neatly on his waist and laughed quietly. The sleeves were too short and it was really baggy on his lanky frame but Sherlock loved it. Closing John's old wardrobe behind him, Sherlock slowly made his way back down stairs with his nose buried in the collar of John's jumper.


	11. K'

**'K'-**

Sherlock was obnoxious when he sent text messages. Often sending a series of three or four within the span of about a minuet. Obviously it was to get the attention of the receiver of the text messages, and John knew that, but it didn't make it any less amusing when he heard his cell phone ping multiple times before going silent. The reactions of others around him was what made the experience bearable, most random on lookers gave him the most quizzical looks that he could imagine.

Except when those times when the randoms that gave him those quizzical looks weren't randoms at all, and they were his patients at the clinic. It was extremely unprofessional of him when his cell phone went off four times from his desk or inside his jeans pocket when he was providing medical knowledge or filling out a prescription.

Sarah had asked him to turn his cell phone off or at least put the damn thing on silent more times than John could count off on his fingers, and John always nodded and promised that he would. But John couldn't do that because he lived with and loved a mad consulting detective that had a horrible habit of blowing up their microwave or getting himself caught into all sorts of dangerous situations when John wasn't with him or he didn't call the Yard for back up when investigating a case on his own and he needed rescuing.

Lestrade also had the same multiple text messages problem from Sherlock that John had, and the DI had some sense to wait until his phone stopped ringing before opening up his messages and read them in one go. Unlike John, Lestrade only generally replied in one worded sentences or never replied at all unless it was deemed important. Lestrade's most famous reply was 'K'.

The famous 'K' had filled Sherlock's own inbox many times and Sherlock always complained that Lestrade never even read his messages at all, but John knew better because every time John was around and Greg got the messages from Sherlock, Greg would turn his phone on an angle so John could read them along with him. It wasn't until one night when Sherlock was being just a little bit more insufferable than usual and Greg just really needed a drink, when Greg told John that he should just start replying with 'K' when he was working at the clinic because it usually shut the detective up for a while and John couldn't help but nodding along with his friend.

_**To: **__John, __**Sender: **__Sherlock- It wasn't the cement John, it was the truck_

_**To: **__John, __**Sender: **__Sherlock- Do you think Molly would give me the girls right foot, still in the cement? _

_**To: **__John, __**Sender: **__Sherlock- For experimental purposes of course_

_**To: **__John, __**Sender: **__Sherlock- The right foot is the key John_

John sat in his office, between patients at the moment, twiddling his thumbs over his cell phone reading Sherlock's messages. His next patient startled John by knocking on his door, making a snap decision, John replied just as Lestrade suggested.

_**To: **__Sherlock, __**Sender: **__John- K_

While John's patient was changing into her paper gown, John pulled his phone out of his jean pocket to find only one message in his inbox.

_**To: **__John, __**Sender: **__Sherlock- You've drunk with Gavin again, haven't you?_


	12. Love

Love-

John wondered if this was what cocaine felt like. He had meant to ask Sherlock for a while if the drug that use to coarse through his veins was like the adrenaline that pumped through John's veins now. Did Sherlock still crave it like John craved their next chase of a criminal, with his unregistered gun, down a dirty alley, with no back up and the potential of death?

John also wondered if he would ever be able to ask his detective anything ever again. John's footsteps echoed off the damp dirty walls of the dark alley he had followed one of human traffickers down, he had lost sight of the man briefly thirty seconds ago but now John's gun was trained on the back of the mans head as he ran after him.

It was hard not tripping over beer bottles or soggy newspapers while he ran and keeping his gun up at the same time, but John managed because Sherlock was in trouble God knows where and it was all John's fault. He had let the detective slip through his fingers and disappear right out from underneath him while they were following one lead and Lestrade the other.

Sherlock and John's lead was unfortunately the right one and they had stormed right into a complicated human trafficking ring, resulting in some not so sweet talking their way out of it, a brief gun fight and then a missing detective. Without any backup. Now John was all alone watching the man he was following slip through a crack in the wall. Which in closer inspection, as John slowed down from his running and lightened his foot steps as he approached the crack, it was really just a door that blended really well with its surroundings.

Flattening himself against the dirty alley wall beside the door, John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep steady breath through his mouth before peaking around the wall and looking through the opened crack of a door. What John saw made his heart get stuck in his throat. Eyes wide and pulse fast, John slipped his way into the cold room undetected by the men who were beating Sherlock within an inch of his life.

John could hardly hear the sounds of Sherlock's painful grunts and the sound of flesh hitting flesh over his own heartbeat. His gun was already loaded, his finger on the trigger when there was a lull in Sherlock's beating for a harsh sounding and quick conversation in Russian before John made his presence known by shooting the men in quick session in the knees.

The gun shots rung in John's ears and around the almost empty room that wasn't as cold as John originally thought it was. Through puffy and swollen eyes, Sherlock squinted through the blood that had run into his eyes from a nasty looking blow to his forehead at John's figure crouching before him on the ground.

The men who were beating Sherlock had tried to reach for their guns to shoot John back but he kicked them away before he assessed Sherlock. John's gun shots were heard by neighbors and soon John could hear the distant sounds of sirens.

"J'hn?" Sherlock mumbled through his bloody lips and he coughed.

John shushed his detective, "you're okay Sherlock, help is on the way."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut and he coughed again, weaker this time.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John's breath hitched, "stay with me."

There was a bang from behind John which startled Sherlock's eyes open again and John swiveled around on his knees, gun raised.

"John! Jesus! What the hell-" Lestrade lowered his gun and quickly waved the paramedics into the room, "is that Sherlock?"

Tucking his gun into the back of his jeans, John turned back to Sherlock and took a hold of one of his limp and pale hands that were resting against the cold concrete floor. A paramedic knelt down beside John and John quickly told her what happened.

"J'hn?" Sherlock tried to speak again as the other parametric shone lights in his eyes.

John squeezed Sherlock's hand, "I'm here Sherlock, everything's going to be alright."

With a wet breath in, Sherlock croaked, "lov' you J'hn" and then passed out.

The paramedics politely pushed John out of the way and started helping Sherlock come back to the world of the conscious.

It wasn't much, Sherlock wasn't even lucid but his confession still made John's heart flutter against his rib cage.


	13. Mycroft

**M**ycroft-

The day that Mycroft Holmes found out officially about the relationship that had blossomed between his younger brother and Doctor John Watson was a long hot one. It was also quite unlike the circumstances that the land lady of 221B had found out. Mrs Hudson had discovered them in the aftermath, when it was barely warm and she wasn't scared for life. Mycroft on the other hand walked in on them when it was in the intimate stages and uncomfortably warm.

It wasn't like it was unexpected, Mycroft had known this would happen from the very start of everything when John had firstly limped into Sherlock's life. There was also a betting pool at the Yard that Mycroft was not so secretly following through Detective Lestrade, who will be upset when he finds out the next day when Sherlock and John turn up at the Yard with matching hickies that he will have to pay up to Anderson because although he was happy for them- '_finally, Jesus_'- he was now short about $100.

Long days would surely be the death of Mycroft, especially hot ones where he was forced to swelter in his office doing paper work and act like he was completely immune to the heat when he was in important meetings, willing himself not to sweat and act casual drinking more water than usual. Hot days were the ones where Mycroft tried to avoid his little brother, because if the hot water forced Mycroft to roll up his sleeves and make his hair untied and crumple his jackets, the heat did worse to Sherlock. It made him more irritable than normal and even more uncooperative, but this time it was unavoidable. Someone higher up had requested Sherlock's help with a matter that Mycroft couldn't disclose personally, and since Mycroft was his brother, it would be Mycroft's job instead of some other minor government officials to give the case files to Sherlock.

Mycroft pulled up to 221B sometime in the evening, where the air was still hummed and little bugs buzzed around in clusters on the grass. Knocking on the door to 221B, Mycroft politely waited for Mrs Hudson to answer the door, because last time he had invited himself in, she yelled and broke some plates much to the delight of Sherlock and it was really too hot for a repeat of that.

"Oh Mr Holmes!" Came a voice from the opening door, "how nice to see you."

"Good evening Mrs Hudson," Mycroft forced a smile, "I've come to see Sherlock."

"Yes, I see," Mrs Hudson hesitated in the door way and after a few seconds she pulled the door wide open, allowing Mycroft to step inside. "He's upstairs with John," she said with a knowing smile and waved Mycroft on.

Mycroft politely muttered his thanks and made his way up the stairs to the flat. He didn't bother knocking because he knew that Sherlock would have heard his exchange downstairs with the land lady and his foot steps up the stairs, it was also possible that he was watching the street and saw Mycroft's car pull up. Except Sherlock didn't see or hear anything because he was wrapped up in John, damp curls thrown back against the couch and a set of teeth latched onto his collar bones.

In a shock, Mycroft dropped the case file and quickly stepped back out, drawing the door to Sherlock and John's flat sharply shut again behind him. Making his way back down the steps, Mycroft shook his head and avoided looking at Mrs Hudson who had her head popped out of her own flat suppressing a laugh or two. Mycroft was sure that he had never left Baker Street faster than he had even done that day before, but there was a first for everything.


End file.
